


Operation Firestorm

by fab_fan



Series: MFS Week [6]
Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/F, Light Angst, Sorry Not Sorry, The Author Regrets Everything, here we go again, it was bound to happen, mfs week follow up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25640944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_fan/pseuds/fab_fan
Summary: The lieutenant nodded, “Ok.” She returned her attention to the girls, “Under the Constitution of the United States of America and the Salem Accord of 1692, any child born of a witch must report to Fort Salem for training in the military arts, and to fail to do so is an act of treason punishable by death.”The young girls gasped, one whimpering loudly.Hands curling into fists, Raelle locked her jaw. She listened as boots shuffled and scourges ruffled.(Please Read Author Notes at the Beginning!)
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Series: MFS Week [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807099
Comments: 48
Kudos: 110





	Operation Firestorm

**Author's Note:**

> Follow-Up To Day 4: Canon Divergence for MFS Week 2020 (aka, you gotta read that one first to truly understand what's happening here)
> 
> Also...it was bound to happen. Sorry!

It was a cloudy day, only splotches of thready light breaking through the dim dark rumbling storms low overhead. So low, it was almost as if one reached up high enough, they could touch the sky, drag the rain down and let it wash over the dull colorless street. The houses along the faded and cracked road were all the same, a cookie cutter neighborhood that pretended to be the American dream with 2.5 kids and white painted fences, car parked in the driveway and porch lights on long enough to offer a glimpse through shaded windows into the dull lives of those inside.

Civilians.

Unaware of what was happening right next door. What the slightly dilapidated house with the faded baby blue door and purple flowers in the windowsill held within it’s dusky walls. 

A dodger safehouse. A stopover for those hiding from conscription, running from their duties. From their calling. Men and women who chose to continue moving, never staying in any place long enough to call it home instead of finding their shelter in the military.

“Is there anyone else in the house?” the Lieutenant barked, grip firm on the scourge in her hand. She towered over the three women, no older than Raelle, kneeling on the freshly scrubbed floor, the recently mobbed linoleum scraped and stained with dirt and scratch marks from the tussle. Raelle stared out the window, not looking at the young women all but crumpled before the group of soldiers. Silencers wrapped around their throats and hands bound behind their backs, they look pitiful, broken, scared. Any defiance that might have lived in their souls was gone, snuffed out the moment the unit broke through their door and rushed inside, scourges whipping and voices shouting. 

“N-No.” the one in the middle, a brunette with terrified brown eyes and a quivering chin, answered.

The officer stepped closer to her, “Are you lying to me?”

Raelle glanced down at her boots. They were in need of a good oil and polish, tiny cracks splintering across the black leather like broken glass, ice on a wintery pond right before an unerring soul fell through to the murky numbing depths below.

“No.” the girl shook her head, tears on her cheeks, eye starting to swell painfully from a brutally vicious scourge strike.

“It’s clear.” a tall willowy witch, Cruz, spoke up from behind the trio.

The lieutenant nodded, “Ok.” She returned her attention to the girls, “Under the Constitution of the United States of America and the Salem Accord of 1692, any child born of a witch must report to Fort Salem for training in the military arts, and to fail to do so is an act of treason punishable by death.” 

The young girls gasped, one whimpering loudly.

Hands curling into fists, Raelle locked her jaw. She listened as boots shuffled and scourges ruffled.

“The Spree.” she called out, closing her eyes as she heard all movement stop.

Silence.

Inhaling deeply, she steeled herself. Spinning on her heels, Raelle faced her commanding officer, “The Spree were sighted nearby. If they know anything about the Spree, they would be valuable sources of information.”

The older witch stared at Raelle.

Raelle didn’t blink, clasping her hands behind her back, hiding how her blunt nails dug into her flesh, a thumb breaking through and rubbing against the inside of her left palm. She pulled her shoulders back, face blank. 

The dark haired witch gestured for her to continue.

“We should arrest them and bring them back to base for questioning. They might know about Spree activity. At the very least, where other dodger safehouses are located. Their movements. Patterns.”

A twitch of the mouth, “You said the same thing last time, Collar.”

“And you earned a rather shiny medal for gaining a vital piece of Intelligence,” Raelle paused before adding, “ma’am.”

The lieutenant bit her lip sardonically, giving a brief nod, “Ok, Private.” She tilted her head, “Take them to the van. We leave in five.” 

Three witches instantly stepped forward, roughly grabbing and pulling the girls to their feet. Their sneakers stumped across the floor, tripping and weaving unsteadily as they were dragged out of the room. 

Raelle refused to watch them go.

Watch three young women who were on death’s door. Who only earned a small reprieve. Who would soon be chained up and beaten, whether psychologically or physically it didn’t matter. Either way, they weren’t dead now but their fate was sealed the moment word got in about the dodgers holed up in the small town outside of Pittsburgh.

Raelle didn’t flinch as Cruz approached her, “You can’t keep doing this, Collar.”

“Doing what, ma’am?”

“You know what.”

Raelle gave an imperceptibly shrug, “Following orders, ma’am.”

A humorless chuckle, “Say what you need to, Collar, but it doesn’t change the fact they’re traitors, and our job is to find them.” She sighed, “This job isn’t easy. I understand that. But it is what we are assigned to do. Prolonging the inevitable isn’t mercy. It’s cruel.”

“And killing them isn’t?”

“That’s not our call, Collar. They chose to run. To be traitors. Hell, as you said, they may even be Spree. Murderers. Don’t be blinded by an innocent face. They’d just as soon kill you than you them.”

Raelle’s jaw ticked with the effort to not respond, “Yes, ma’am.”

A crisp nod, “Take a moment. I know these months, hell this year, hasn’t been easy for you. This job isn’t meant for newbies, and you got tossed in. You do good work, Collar. You belong here. We are all very proud to serve alongside you. Get your head on right. We need to be back at the rendezvous point in twenty. We’ll be back in Salem by nightfall. We’ve been granted a few days reprieve. I suggest you take the time to unwind. Remember what you’re here for. Who you’re protecting.”

Raelle swallowed thickly, “Yes, ma’am.”

Another nod and look tinged with meaning, Cruz was out the door, the barrier clicking shut softly behind her. The sound of shouting and tires seeking purchase on damp pavement filtered in through the nearby window.

Taking a breath, Raelle finally let her hands fall to her sides, tiny welts dotting her palms. They shook, her fingers flexing, feeling like the cracked leather of her boots, stiff and broken. Her chest shuddered as her lungs constricted, air hot and thin as it burned her nose and left her body needing more. 

Every day was like this.

Missions.

Traveling to different towns and cities, neighborhoods and distant plots of land. 

Houses, townhomes, apartments, abandoned buildings.

Hunting down dodgers. Deserters. Traitors.

Treating them as ordered.

Execution.

Imprisonment for the lucky few, a one way ticket to a prison they’ll never leave.

The truly exceptional sent for questioning.

Young. Old. Man. Woman. None of it mattered. Age, sex, gender, race - all that mattered was they were born of a witch. That, under the Accord, they were to serve or be dealt with accordingly.

Her lips pressed together, jaw trembling. Had it already been half a year? Nearly 6 months since she turned her medal over to see the words etched into the metal, denoting her fate? To say goodbye to Tally and Abigail? Anacostia?

To Scylla?

The Spree were still out there. Sworn enemy of the military. Fighting for the overthrow of order and peace. 

At least, that was what the propaganda said.

The Camarilla, too, were picking off witches, forcing the army to fight two fronts.

It didn’t matter. The Spree were still the Spree and Dodgers were still Dodgers in the eyes of Alder.

The minute she reported to her new unit, her new squadron, her life changed. Always traveling. Always deployed. Mission after mission keeping her from Fort Salem, from any sense of normalcy she once had. Normalcy now was a pack on her back and the next transport out. A rumor of a safehouse here. Whisper of a dodger hideout there. Up and down the coast, her unit responsible for the northeast but more than once assisting on operations in the south and west. 

Once in the Cession.

When Raelle had to stand down. Stand back. Obey orders to secure the perimeter and help collect the bodies.

Less than an hour from her own home.

She could still remember the smell of the damp mud, thick as molasses, the way the sky buzzed with cicadas and the long grass left dewey droplets on her black trousers. 

The way the life slowly left the Dodgers’ eyes, bit by bit, their faces grim and terrified though they refused to relinquish whatever scrap of dignity they had left.

Her hands trembled at the phantom need to save them. To help, to heal. Her instincts had begged to be put to use, to let her gift do its work, and only the sharp bark from her commander and a firm arm blocking her path stopped her from intervening. 

From fixing instead of breaking.

Killing.

Hearing the slam of the van door, she blinked, wetting her suddenly parched lips. Blinking away any emotions that attempted to infiltrate her mind, to make her feel anything more than the numbness that had slowly taken over her being since she graduated, since even before that, since she was told Scylla had been swept up in the storm at the Bellweather wedding, she crisply spun on her heel and marched out of the house, not looking back.

Not seeing the flash of a balloon in the hallway mirror.

* * *

Anacostia stood tall, hands behind her back and eyes forward as the trucks rumbled to a stop. She watched the soldiers amble out, exhausted and weighed down by their gear and responsibilities, from long days and short nights. Constant travel and long drawn out stretches away from home. Away from family and friends and a bunk they called their own in the barracks. Brown orbs tracked the lumbering movements, skipping from worn out face to worn out face until they settled on a somber youthful visage, eyes hazy with unspoken apathy, the blue dulled, cold and desolate where it once burned like the hottest of flames. Each step weighed down like a mountain lain on the young woman’s back. 

She had heard the stories. Did her best to keep an ear to the ground on what her former cadet was up to. The missions she executed and assignments she participated in. It wasn’t as easy as others, not like with Bellweather or Craven who were safely ensconced in War College, building up resumes with classes and lectures.

It wasn’t easy when she, herself, was moving between two forces. Finding herself growing a soft spot for Ramshorn the same way she had with Collar as certain goals were achieved and needs aligned.

Izadora had done her best to help, but even she was not privy to much information about the military police. A force all their own, separated from the normal combatants and intelligence officers. 

A separate mission from the rest of the army.

A division that kept to themselves. Operated under different parameters. That was rarely spoken of or acknowledged. 

She squared her shoulders, rising just that little bit more in height, and called out, voice rising above the idle chatter and stomping boots, “Collar!”

Raelle’s head drifted up, brows knitting together as she frowned. She glanced over at her commander, receiving a quizzical glance but a nod, before redirecting her path. Within moments she was in front of Anacostia, hand gripping the strap of her pack while the other hung listlessly at her side, scraping haphazardly against the handle of the scourge hooked at her hip.

Anacostia pushed back against the tinge of regret and concern teasing the tip of her tongue. “Come with me.”

Raelle didn’t move, “I have a debrief, ma’am.”

Anacostia forced herself to not react to the monotone reply or detached gaze. If you asked her a year ago, she would have laughed at the thought of being anything other than pleased to hear one of her former cadets be ready to follow protocol. To see a once wayward soldier now arrive back from a mission with a lack of sass or attitude.

Now, an uncomfortable feeling settled in the pit of her stomach, “With me, Private.”

She had wanted to help Collar when the girl first arrived off the bus for basic. Mold her into someone that the blonde, herself, could be proud of. Grow past the belligerent volatile youth so full of talent and potential but with no hand to guide her out of her own reckless indifference to become a soldier that others would beg to serve with. To show her the army could help fill the empty spaces in her life. Give her a home. A meaning. A purpose. She knew, beyond the sarcasm and demerits, was a good strong witch.

Anacostia had seen what deployments did to certain soldiers. Accepted it, because this was their life. But, seeing the spark that once ignited in this young woman’s eyes be all but obliterated had a coldness trickling along her fingers.This wasn’t someone who harnessed and controlled their powers, their emotions. This was someone who refused to acknowledge they were even there.

This was someone who looked like they’d served for thirty years instead of almost one.

A look she vaguely remembered being offered to her the day of graduation, after the dust had settled and Raelle had seen her placement on the back of her medal. When, after everything that had happened to her at basic devolved into those two words etched so casually, so unerringly cruelly, into the metal, she accepted her fate. 

A fate that saw her be ripped away from any of those who had supported her or known what she had seen while training on the grounds of Fort Salem.

Had known her when she was with Scylla.

When she was with a now known Spree operative.

Had been in love with her.

Raelle stared at Anacostia. Then, after a few heartbeats, she relented with a resigned sigh. 

They began walking side by side, Raelle shifting the strap more fully over her shoulder as they crossed to a well worn path, grass perfectly manicured along the edges of the pavement. “Successful mission?” Anacostia inquired.

“Depends on who you ask.” Raelle shrugged, “On their way to questioning.”

Anacostia nodded, pursing her lips as she settled on her words, “I am...very proud of you, Collar. I know this has been a difficult time for you. I’ve wanted to speak with you sooner, but your continued deployment has made it…”

“What do you want?” Raelle cut her off, in no mood for small talk or platitudes. 

Anacostia led her toward a small structure, looking to be no more than a supply building, “There has been a change in...strategy.”

Raelle frowned but didn’t respond.

Anacostia pulled her to a stop at the entrance, “The fight against the Camarilla is not going as smoothly as we had hoped.”

“As Alder had hoped.” Raelle corrected, a touch of abject bitterness hinting at the curl of her tone. “It took her till a few weeks ago to even acknowledge they are back.” 

An address that had riled the witch community. Many were ready to fight, to take up their scourges and defeat the enemy.

Raelle quietly wondered how long the actual war had been going on.

The General’s focus was always on the Spree. Continued to be on the Spree.

Anacostia’s mouth twitched, the only sign of agreement, “There is a push for an...alliance.”

Raelle’s eyelashes trembled the slightest bit, a tiny spark of movement that one would easily miss if they were not paying attention. Her jaw grew tense, and her voice became faintly strained, “Is she ok?”

Anacostia locked eyes with her, not saying a word.

Raelle’s lips gave the tiniest of shivers, eyes sliding to the side before she bit out, “No. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to know.”

“Collar,”

“Things are different now.” she let out, the first invisible thread of feeling wrapping around her words. Taking a deep breath, she released the strap of her pack, unconsciously swiping the back of her knuckle across her nose, arms looking like they didn’t know if they wanted to cross over her chest or wave around at her sides, a barely contained restless energy buzzing through her. It looked like she wanted to say more, making the smallest of movements, the tiniest twitch of a lip and tremor of a brow. Instead, she nodded to herself, swallowing down whatever emotion laced utterance stuck to the roof of her mouth and burned the tip of her tongue, “I need to get back to my unit.”

Before Anacostia could reply, she began to walk away, hand back to griping the strap of her bag like it was a lifeline, knuckles turning a frigid white at the strength she exerted against the worn fibers.

“Collar!”

Raelle paused, not turning around. Not revealing her face to the officer she once almost saw as a mentor.

“Things are about to change _very_ quickly. You need to properly prepare yourself for what’s to come.”

A shrug, “I am about to officially be on leave. I don’t have to prepare for anything.”

With that, she marched off, not looking back.

* * *

Anacostia strolled out of the officer’s dining room, steps crisp and even as Izadora followed at her side. Subtly checking the empty hallway, they stepped off to the side, slipping into an unoccupied tiny reading room, stiff leather chairs empty and dusty books unread, more for decoration than useful material.

“Clary and Bellweather believe they can solidify an alliance.” Anacostia whispered. “Ramshorn thinks she can bring her leader to the table.”

“Sarah has shown no leniency toward the Spree.” Izadora pointed out. “She still refuses to believe that many of the attacks were by the Camarilla.”

Anacostia’s head dipped in frustration, “I know.”

Izadora stared at her, “Ana...Clary and Bellweather are ready to replace Alder and make this alliance. You understand what that means.”

Before Anacostia could respond, a head popped in, craning around the doorframe. It was Haung, a recent addition to General Clary’s staff, “Sgt. L’Amara. Sgt. Quartermaine. Are you coming?”

Both frowned.

Sensing their confusion, the young officer hooked a thumb over her shoulder, “General Alder is giving a speech. Primetime.”

“What?” Anacostia racked her brain, not remembering an announcement as to the leader of the army making any plans for a speech, let alone a televised one.

“Only announced it a half hour ago.”

A cold sense of dread filled Anacostia. 

Unannounced until a half hour before it aired, a primetime slot, no time for anyone to prepare or rumors to float around.

General Alder would appear on every television on base and across the country.

Sharing a quick look, Anacostia and Izadora quickly left the room, following Haung until they reached the recreation room. Officers were already gathered around the television, same as every other soldier on base was in their designated mess halls.

The television flickered slightly as the elegant leader, medals shining on her bold brash slick uniform, stepped up to the podium.

With a sly glimmer in her eye, and a wickedly confident, almost smug, tilt to her regal smirk, she spoke loudly and clearly. Garnering the attention of every cadet and officer on base, voice booming across the airwaves and echoing in the minds of all who listened.

“Tonight, I wish to announce a new initiative. The Spree have for far too long committed heinous acts of terror across our great nation. Have used fear and violence against civilian and witch alike. For too long, we have suffered their egregious and despicable acts.”

Her voice somehow seemed to grow even louder, even more vivacious. 

Her eyes grew darker.

Colder.

“Dodgers, those who choose to betray their country and their calling have assisted these terrorists. There are even those within our own military who have turned their backs on their fellow soldiers and those they have a duty to protect and defend. While there are those who believe there are other enemies far more dangerous than terrorists and traitors, I unequivocally tell you now - they are wrong.”

Anacostia felt Izadora stiffen at her side as realization slowly set in.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw General Clary furiously whispering with Haung.

“At this very moment, some of our best and most highly trained soldiers are being deployed in Operation Firestorm. With their bravery and courage we shall once and for all destroy these bastions of fear and bring to justice all those who betray and oppose these United States.”

Anacostia didn’t hear the slight burst of static as Alder disappeared and the local news anchor came back on screen. 

There was a clamber at the door as a cadre of soldiers, the military police patch sewn on their arms, descended on the small room, faces blank and silencers and cuffs in hand. 

Before anyone could blink, General Clary’s hands were bound behind her back, the stern black haired witch standing behind her, clinking the silencer in place, “General Clary, you are hereby under arrest for treason.”

Pandemonium broke out, voices rising as even more officers found themselves in chains.

“Ana,” Izadora muttered, the warning clear in her voice.

They had to leave.

Whatever move they might have had planned - Alder knew about it.

And she was exacting revenge.

The duo quickly and silently exited the room, ducking past rushing uniforms and clomping boots.

As they burst out into the night air, Anacostia couldn’t help but notice the bright lights projected into the darkened sky nor the vehicles speeding across base, tires squealing. 

A body roughly bumped into the sergeant, nearly toppling her over. She turned her head to glare but was met with blue eyes full of fear so stark she could almost feel it jump out and wrap around her heart.

Raelle, dark uniform blending into the night, was not dressed for leisure or vacation.

She was dressed for deployment.

“Get Scylla out of here.” Raelle whispered harshly, chancing a glance at Izadora, “Thirty minutes.”

Then, she was jogging away.

Thirty minutes.

They had thirty minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, any and all comments are greatly appreciated and treasured. Let me know what you think of this fun little fic!


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